“Three Streams,” John Swain
In the cavern where three streams met
a loose stone peered like a god mask
jagged as the mountain and crescent.
Water distorted its more human likeness
on the opposite side.
I lifted the object from a dripping shelf,
its weight was substantial, unexpected.
I wore the face one instant for myself
and glimpsed distances and aging
in the blue eternities of soul formation.
A limpid pool cleansed me of the mud,
then I left the guard in its sacred place
and returned to the surface of bears.